Mistakes
by Joanne Mariexx
Summary: They're in a stand-off. A silent battle of hurt looks and slight, tilted frowns, and no one really knows who the winner is. All they know is who has to back down.


**A/N: Set in between seasons 3b and 4. A really really short one-shot that I wrote after the premiere. I'll probably hate it and edit it tomorrow. Enjoy.**

* * *

He doesn't meet her eyes when he talks to her. He's nervous. She can tell.

It's one of those days again. It's one of those days after one those nights of restless sleep and a thousand bad dreams that he can't seem to shake away in the morning. All of that grief inside him, all the memories of what he'd done, all the ways everything could have ended up much, much worse, they're all dripping from his fingertips in the daytime. They're the sweat on his face, the shower water on his hair that the sun refuses to dry. His mistakes, they're the tears that well up in his eyes when he's alone that don't ever leave his cheeks and leave his skin sticky and tight.

He's trying his best not to look at one of his mistakes right now, as he speaks. He's also trying to ignore the fact that she can read him better than a book, regardless. He's somehow always raw around her, and he doesn't like it. He speaks to his sneakers, just like he practiced a thousand times in the night.

"Hey, uh – Malia – I… uh…."

He fumbles. Perhaps it isn't just like he practiced.

"I'm sorry about… what happened last month. With us. I know it's not what you want to hear. I know, and it's awful of me to say this to you, especially after waiting so long, and I'm so sorry, but I just -"

She narrows her eyes at him. Spit it out, she says. But she knows. He knows she knows, and they're both raw right now. They're a tangled mess, and he figures they can't unravel without first getting messier.

"That night was a mistake."

The edges of his shoes are very, very dirty.

"That night was a mistake. You were the closest thing I could grab onto, and I couldn't let go, and I'm sorry. And this – this awkward thing we have going on right now, I don't… you know I can't…"

He wants to look at her. He wants to see her face, see what she's thinking, but he can't do it just yet.

"I can't."

He's not ready to see her; but he doesn't think he'll ever truly be ready to see her, so he looks anyway and isn't sure what he expects. She's just looking at him, waiting for him to say more. But he doesn't have much more to say.

"I just can't do it. I'm sorry."

He's not sure if she looks disappointed or not.

"I don't want a girlfriend. I don't want the two of us to be together. I don't want you kissing me."

He decides that it's not a disappointed look he sees on her face. It's more confused, more unpleasantly surprised. In the silence that follows, her eyes dig into him, and he's sure she can tell how terrified he is. When she finally speaks, it's soft. Not quite understanding, far from compassionate, but quiet.

"But I hear better when I kiss you."

"I know."

"And I can focus more when I smell you."

"I know."

"Yours is the only smell that doesn't really disgust me."

"Thanks."

They're in a stand-off. A silent battle of hurt looks and slight, tilted frowns, and no one really knows who the winner is. All they know is who has to back down.

"Okay."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

His shoes don't look any cleaner when he looks back down at them. He wonders about hers. Time passes, just like this.

"Can I still smell you? As a friend?"

And he laughs, this lung-deep chuckle that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"From a distance. Scott can teach you how."

"I won't need his help."

"I'm not sure if that's creepy or flattering."

A pause.

"But I can't kiss you as a friend. Right?"

"I'd sure appreciate it if you didn't."

"Okay."

The silence that follows stretches on for miles, from Beacon Hills to New York and back again, and when it returns, she simply can't stay any longer. She stands from her seat and gives him a sad smile as she turns to leave. He doesn't stop her.

He is left alone on an empty bench outside the school, but it doesn't feel like much of a change from before. The only difference is that now, he feels just a little lighter. The strings on his back aren't quite as tangled as they were before, and as he sits there, staring off into space, he thinks that maybe he might be able to move again soon.

The bell rings, somewhere high up behind his head.

He picks up his cross-stick and wraps his strings around it as well as they will fit and walks to class.


End file.
